They paused again and listened. There was no sound.

The rooms were dank and icy.

Flashing the light ahead, Qwilleran led the way through a butler's pantry and then a dining room. Gaping holes indicated that the mantel and chandelier had come from this room. Beyond was the parlor, with a large fireplace still intact.

A wide archway equipped with sliding doors opened into the front hall, and one of them stood ajar.

Qwilleran went through first, and the woman crowded behind him.

The hall was a shambles. He flashed his light over lengths of stair rail, sections of paneling leaning against the wall, pieces of carved molding, and there — at the foot of the stairs…

She screamed. "There he is!" She rushed forward. A large section of paneling lay on top of the sprawled body.

"Oh, my God! Is he — Is he — ?" "Maybe he's unconscious. You stay here," Qwilleran said. "Let me have a look." The slab of black walnut that lay on top of the fallen man was enormously heavy. With difficulty Qwilleran eased it up and tilted it against the wall.

Mrs. Cobb was sobbing. "I'm afraid. Oh, I'm afraid." Then he beamed the light on the face — white under the gray stubble.

She tugged at Qwilleran's coat. "Can you tell? Is he breathing?" "It doesn't look good." "Maybe he's just frozen. Maybe he fell and knocked himself out, and he's been lying here in the cold." She took her husband's icy hand. She leaned over and flooded warm breath over his nose and mouth.

Neither of them heard the footsteps coming through the house. Suddenly the hall was alight, and the glare of a powerful flashlight blinded them. Someone was standing in the doorway that led from the parlor.

"This is the police," said an official voice behind the light. "What are you doing here?" Mrs. Cobb burst into tears. "My husband is hurt. Quick! Get him to a hospital." "What are you doing here?" "There's no time! No time!" she cried hysterically. "Call an ambulance — call an ambulance before it's too late!" One of the officers stepped into the beam of light and bent over the body. He shook his head.

"No! No!" she cried wildly. "They can save him! They can do something, I know! Hurry… hurry!" "Too late, lady." Then he said to his partner, "Tell dispatch we've got a body."!

Mrs. Cobb uttered a long heartbroken wall.

"You'll have to make a statement at headquarters," the officer said.

Qwilleran showed his police card. "I'm with the Daily Fluxion." The officer nodded and relaxed his brusque manner. "Do you mind coming downtown? The detectives will want a statement. Just routine." The newsman put an arm around his landlady to support her. "How did you fellows happen to find us?" he asked.

"A cabbie reported two fares dropped at Zwinger and Fifteenth…. What happened to this man? Did he fall downstairs?" "Looks like it. When he failed to come home, we — " Iris Cobb wailed wretchedly. "He was carrying that panel. He must have slipped-missed his step…. I told him not to come. I told him!" She turned a contorted face to Qwilleran. "What will I do?… What will I do?… I loved that wonderful man!"

13

After Qwilleran had brought Iris Cobb home from Police Headquarters and had called Mary Duckworth to come and stand by, he went to the office. With a bleak expression on his face, accentuated by the downcurve of his moustache, he threw ten pages of triple-spaced copy on Arch Riker's desk.

"What's the matter?" Arch said.

"Rough morning! I've been up since five," Qwilleran told him. "My landlord was killed. Fell down a flight of stairs." "You mean Cobb?" "He was stripping one of the condemned houses, and when he didn't come home, I went out with Mrs. Cobb to look for him. We found him dead at the foot of the stairs. Then the police took us in for questioning. Mrs. Cobb is a wreck." "Too bad. Sorry to hear that." "It was the Ellsworth house on Fifteenth Street." "I know the place," Riker said. "A big stone mausoleum. Hector Ellsworth was mayor of this town forty years ago." "He was?" Qwilleran laughed without mirth. "Then Cobb lost his last battle with City Hall. They finally got him! I'm beginning to believe in the spirit world." "How are you going to write this up?" "It's a trifle awkward. Cobb was trespassing." "Scrounging? All the junkers do that. Even Rosie! She never goes out without a crowbar in the car." "Tell your wife she's guilty of looting city property. Cobb was caught once. They arrested him and gave him a heavy fine-and a warning, which he disregarded." "Doesn't sound like the kind of jolly Christmas story the boss wants." "There's one thing we could do," said Qwilleran. "Cobb was organizing a Christmas celebration for Junktown — a Block Party — and the city was giving him a hard time. Wouldn't let him decorate the street, play Christmas music, or serve refreshments. All kinds of red tape. Why don't we talk to City Hall and railroad this thing through for Wednesday afternoon? It's the least we can do. It's not much, but it might make the widow feel a little better." "I'll ask the boss to get the mayor on the phone." "The way I see it, there are five city bureaus giving Junktown the run-around. If they could just get someone from the mayor's office to cut through the whole mess…" "All right. And why don't you write a plug for the Block Party? We'll run it in tomorrow's paper. We'll get every junker in town to turn out. And write something about Cobb — something with heart." Qwilleran nodded. The phrases were already forming in his mind. He'd write about the man who tried to make people hate him, but in the topsy-turvy world of the junker, everyone loved his perversity.

Qwilleran stopped in the Fluxion library to look up the clips on Hector Ellsworth and at the payroll cage to pick up his check, and then he returned to Junktown.

Mary Duckworth, handsomely trousered, met him at the door of the Cobb apartment. He was aware of a subtle elation in her manner.

"How's Iris?" he asked.

"I gave her a sedative, and she's sleeping. The funeral will be in Cleveland, and I've made a plane reservation for her." "Anything I can do? Perhaps I should pick up the station wagon. It's still behind the Ellsworth house. Then I can drive her to the airport." "Would you? I'm packing a bag for her." "When she wakes," Qwilleran said, "tell her that Junktown is going to have everything C.C. wanted for the Christmas party." "I know," said Mary. "The mayor's office has already called. His representative is coming here to speak to the dealers this afternoon, and then we'll have a meeting upstairs tonight." "In Hernia Heaven? I'd like to attend." "The dealers would be delighted to have you." "Come across the hall," Qwilleran said. "I have something to report." As he unlocked the door of his apartment, the cats — who had been curled together in a sleeping pillow of fur in the Morris chair — immediately raised their heads. Yum Yum scampered from the room, but Koko stood his ground, arching his back and bushing his tail as he glared at the stranger. His reaction was not hostile — only unflattering.

"Do I look like an ogre?" Mary wanted to know.

"Koko can sense Hepplewhite," Qwilleran said. "He knows you've got a big dog. Cats are psychic." He threw his overcoat on the daybed and placed his hat on the desk, and when he did so, he saw a small dark object lying near his typewriter. He approached it gingerly. It looked like the decomposed remains of a small bird.

"What's this?" he said. "What the devil is this?" Mary examined the small brown fragment. "Why, it's a piece of hair jewelry! A brooch!" He combed his moustache with his fingertips. "Some uncanny things have been happening on these premises.

Yesterday some benevolent spirit left me a dollar bill!" He examined the birdlike form woven of twisted brown strands.

"You mean this is real hair?" "Human hair. It's memorial jewelry. They used to make necklaces, bracelets, all sorts of things from the hair of someone who had died." "Who would want to keep such stuff?" "Iris has an extensive collection. She even wears it occasionally." Qwilleran dropped the brooch with distaste. "Sit down," he said, "and let me tell you what I discovered about the Ellsworth house in the Fluxion clip file." He offered her a gilded chair, flipping the red cushion to the side that was not furred with cat hair. "Did you know that Ellsworth was a former mayor?" "Yes, I've heard about him." "He died at the age of ninety-two, having achieved a reputation for eccentricity. He was a compulsive collector — never threw anything away. He had a twenty-year accumulation of old newspapers, string, and vinegar bottles. And he was supposed to be worth quite a sum of money, but a large chunk of his holdings was never found…. Does that suggest anything to you?" Mary shook her head.